Like Smoke, Forbidden
by Lady Anthea
Summary: How very alive she had been. Written before TAB aired, so non-canon compliant. Warning for implied drug use.
OK, I've been working on this for a much longer time that I had intended to. I wanted to posted this before TAB aired, so whatever actually happened in the episode wouldn't ruin it, but I got a bit carried away with moving to a new place and a new job (which I eventually lost). And when TAB aired I just lost all the inspiration because my brain wanted to make this ficlet fit right into the storyline but now I just decided idgaf about that.

So if you don't mind that, along with shitty titles and what might be an abrupt ending...

* * *

Sunlight spilled through the half-open luxury curtains of 221 B Baker Street, basking the now only tenant of the flat in a soft, amber haze that, most certainly, didn't match his mood.

As it was, Sherlock Holmes found himself staring intently at the vivacious street before him, scrutinising the faces of the nameless bodies waltzing through their poor imitation of daily routines. If he were one to feel such remorse, he'd even dare to admit the absence of one Billy Wiggins in his usual spot around the corner was worrying him; except, of course, he also knew Wiggins preference for receiving a higher fare for his services—he was probably only prolonging his watch for Mr Ricoletti to get his own guinea prize.

Still, the uneasiness that had settled down the pit of his stomach after hearing about the unfortunate fate, and then supposed resurrection, of Ricoletti's wife didn't dissipate. Not that he was prone to believe the ghastly rumours that spread like a vicious plague in London's cobblestone streets; he simply disliked being unable to provide an answer for the puzzle that had been served to him.

In such state of disarray was his mind that Holmes didn't even process the moment in which his previously nimble hands reached out for an object just out of the periphery of his eyes. It was only after the shiny surface of the instrument gleamed under his chin on reflection on the window that he recognized what lay between his hands.

The dissonance between his mind and body wasn't disturbing anymore, though, and even if it were, the thought that decidedly ruled his mind was that the lack of harmony among the notes he tried to concoct was no longer a surprise. The coherent sounds of the violin were as elusive as the remnants of his wretched dreams after waking up. Incomprehensible, just out of his reach.

As a result, just a glide of the bow later, he lowered the instrument with a familiar sigh of frustration.

These days playing music wasn't what it used to be. He remembered the times before Switzerland, before waltzing out of people's lives with the intent of destroying what Moriarty had once craftily constructed. It had been nice, having a purpose for once, but days went by and became weeks, months, until one non-descript evening he woke up from a nightmare to realize six years had gone by, and he was alone, broken, and unsure if there was anything in London to return for. And when he did return, amidst all the string of irrevocable changes, the solace the violin had always been pliant in delivering was now nothing but another lost pleasure, as trembling fingers prevented him from further delving into his healthiest passion. Now, he could only long for the harsh caress of the violin's chords again calloused fingers, the elation of notes piecing themselves together as seemingly insignificant clues of a distinctly difficult case. Composing had been a challenge in and of itself—but the absolute peace of mind a finished piece brought was a high not even the purest drug would ever present him.

Except _Her_.

He blinked in confusion before recognition dawned in him. He was barely aware of the violin's chinrest pressed smoothly against his flesh, but he deftly identified the precise position of his fingers and the bowstring, right after the last sounds of his homage to Her had disappeared just as swiftly as the Woman that had inspired them.

In the background he distinguished the pleased mutterings of his landlady, having not heard such a display of her favourite quirk of his, but not unlike other occasions her voice faded into its distinctive buzz. Fingers suddenly curled in an attentive touch around the instrument's neck, a facsimile of the unprecedented caress that had landed his digits above her pulse point, the vibrant rush of blood had been a distinct reminder of her very nature. How very wild and unrelenting she was.

How very alive she had been.

 _Greytown_ , he had said. Now his mind could no longer provide him of an adequate replica of her voice, even though he still remembered her curious drawl, the _I've never been, is it nice?_ so thoroughly embedded with the ringlets of white-blue smoke that announced the end of yet another forbidden cigarette.

He had wanted to inhale second-hand smoke from her and then taste her lips, to feel the texture of the roof of her mouth and break lovers' etiquette by opening his eyes and seeing up close the freckles her makeup had been unable to conceal. He simply had wanted her, her mind and body as one and in ways he hadn't dared to explore or even imagine.

The voracious nature of the thoughts that had invaded his mind as she knelt down before him had been the only certainty at the moment, as his own lack of data and previous experiences deprived him of any means to theorize the possible outcomes of leaning down and pressing his lips against hers, for once devoid of their inherent shade of red, bare as the body underneath his dressing gown.

Years later he was still unable to make a private statement about his landlady's timely placed interruption. She had, for the lack of a better term, bombarded the moment with her sonorous yelling, and in the same fashion of the USS Cyane in the Mosquito Coast, reduced the moment to an ashy pile of what-ifs.

 _Greytown_ , he had said then, and it only now occurred to him how an adequate metaphor had been for the whole affair. His brother, a gloomy presence in a corner inside the Diogenes Club, nearly granting Irene Adler her very ambitious desires, as his efforts were devoted to damage containment instead of a counter attack. They, the Holmes Boys, nearly destroyed by an adventuress who clutched a set of photographs and drawings as if her life had depended on it, only because blackmail had seem petty and unworthy of time as Professor Moriarty posed a bigger threat.

Holmes swallowed, his eyes at last leaving the seemingly endless mass of passersby out in the street, and found his gaze inexorably pulled towards the mantelpiece. He envisioned her there, in Watson´s old chair, his dressing gown wrapped around her flesh, an embodiment of regal insolence bathed by the glow of dying fire. He imagined her there, alive and tempting as an exciting crime, and found himself inhaling deeply, nostrils flaring for a fragrance long gone.

 _I was just playing the game._

Then, he, who prided on being ahead of his age, had been restrained, unable to roam the world in search of her, the one Woman who mattered. Now, of the brilliant Irene Adler only remained a photograph, carefully stored within the confines of a golden watch, in safekeeping against his chest as the mysterious photographs had once briefly been, and a thought that ran free within his Mind Palace in the least appropriate moments.

Touching absently said watch, Holmes padded quietly into his room, looking for a very specific Morocco case.

* * *

For more information about Greytown and its bombardment, you may visit its Wikipedia page.


End file.
